Desperation
by yeaka
Summary: Two sons of Death Eaters exist together in the library. (Drabble. TNDM, slash.)


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

Warnings: Slash, anal, H/C, drabble.

A/N: Gift for Salviohexiia on my LJ.

* * *

Theodore finds Draco in the library, curled up on a couch in the corner. The book in his lap isn't open – an obvious cover. He's hiding in the dustiest, most crowded room in the manor, tucked away in the back. His eyes are hollow and there are deep circles under them. He looks up nervously when Theodore's footsteps approach. "Is it over, yet?" His voice isn't the silk it once was.

Theodore shakes his head. Their fathers are still in the meeting, still screaming through the heavy oak doors. Theodore sometimes listens when Draco can't, though he never likes what he hears. The Dark Lord is not forgiving, even with his most loyal followers. The Dark Lord tells Theodore he's next, and Draco knows his days are numbered.

They're walking Inferi – doomed to be marked and branded like cattle, shuffled around a bloody, human sized chess-board, by a sociopathic master. Theodore used to think he wouldn't be marked until he was seventeen. He isn't that naïve anymore.

Draco finds comfort in Theodore, Theodore knows. Because when he turns to leave Draco grabs his wrist and pleads, "Stay?" He sounds scared and semi-frantic.

Theodore sits down where Draco draws in his legs, tossing the book carelessly to the floor. Theodore stretches out and leans over.

He doesn't need a pretense – Draco asked him.

The more intense the cover-up emotions, the easier it is too forget. Draco doesn't protest and shifts so that his back is to the armrest. Theodore presses their lips together, and both of them are cold.

Draco kisses Theodore desperately, anyway. There's a fervor and a _need_ in all his movements: something Theodore can never fully heal. All he can give Draco is a temporary high and a mindless release, and comfort in the knowledge that he, at the very least, is not alone. Theodore's bones ache with all of Draco's pain. He sees the same scars in his father's form and breathes the same trepidation. When Draco quivers Theodore understand like no one else can.

Draco wraps his arms around Theodore's neck, and pulls him in closer, and Theodore goes down with him. Draco shifts in the couch, and Theodore accommodates, until they're lying atop one another in it, legs spilling over edges and Draco's back in the cushions. Theodore grinds him gently into it, the emotion filling his veins.

Draco holds him tightly and trails kisses along the side of his face, when Theodore parts to mumble, "Draco?"

"I want this," Draco says, because he knows it's what Theodore will ask. Theodore asks every time, to be sure.

Theodore's fingers tremble as they undo Draco's zipper. He knows that Draco wants it, that Draco needs it, but it isn't for the right reasons, and he's always afraid Draco will break in his arms. His 'yes's will become 'no's, and he'll shatter into pieces. Every time he just holds tight and kisses Theodore with such conviction. It's so convincing. Sometimes Theodore wonders if Draco believes his own lies. If they're _something._

Theodore hikes Draco's knees over his shoulders, as he scrunches and shoves down Draco's pants, revealing Draco's pale hips and pink cock, jutting out and ready. Draco gets hard so easily, even under the pressure. Draco's cheeks flush, and his eyes half-lid already, and he looks too debauched too easily. Theodore is only a few pounds less thin, and he isn't any taller, and he isn't that much stronger. But he feels like a monster over Draco. He leans down to kiss Draco back, and pumps Draco's cock with one hand, and runs down between his cheeks with the other. Draco mewls into everything, always arching.

Draco gasps when Theodore finds his hole. Draco's already wet - already a little stretched. Theodore sometimes wonders if the other Death Eaters fuck him while in his home, or if he just prepares when he knows Theodore's coming over. Draco doesn't smell like anyone else. Theodore convinces himself it's the latter.

Lining himself up is hard – his hands shake, and Draco writhes. But he manages, anyway, pressing the tip in as he leans down. He mumbles, "Ready?" and kisses the bangs out of Draco's eyes.

Draco nods and holds his shoulders.

Theodore presses in, slowly and tight. Never much preparation. It should burn – it's supposed to be a distraction. Draco feels ready, but he still feels _tight_. He always is. He tenses even though he knows he shouldn't, and his fingers claw into Theodore's shoulders, and he whimpers softly. Theodore presses in further and further. He wants to bury himself in Draco – drown out all his troubles. Pleasure runs down his spine, and his skin is warming up.

When he rocks inside he does it slowly. He shifts after every one, trying to find the right angle, until Draco gasps and hisses, "Right there."

Then Theodore starts to fuck him, and deludes himself, like he always does, that if Draco's in his arms, things can't really be that bad.


End file.
